Asim
by The Urban Spaceman
Summary: In old Arabic, Asim's name means 'Protector.' But as a young man newly enlisted and struggling to reconcile his religious beliefs with his new military career, he has no idea just how much he will one day be required to protect.
1. Departure

Asim

_1. Departure_

The scent of his mother's favourite incense lingered in the air, filling the whole house with the warm smell of ylang-ylang. Asim looked down at his bed, at the items strewn across it, and felt a familiar anguish turning his stomach to knots. _Each cadet may bring with them one small bag of personal effects, _his confirmation letter had said, but how could he possibly choose between them? Every item was as important to him as the next, from the small portable album holo-projector which held many images of his family, to the hand-written copy of the Quran gifted to him by his uncle Munir on his tenth birthday, to the painted clay angel figurine his little sister had made for him—she claimed it was special, and that through it, God, still known to the few million present-day worshippers as Allah, was watching over him. And who was he, to argue that point with his little sister?

His 'one small bag' already held his prayer mat, which his mother had woven for him when he'd still been a baby, a bag of essential toiletries, plus a box of treats she insisted that he take with him; dates, stuffed with chopped pistachios. His favourite sweet.

He sighed. He'd always imagined that his day of leaving home would be a time of joy and happiness, that he would move into an apartment just across the road from his family. He'd dreamt of seeing his parents every day, of being here to watch his little brother and sister grow up, of possibly working with his father at Karachi's main desalination plant, or perhaps with his uncle at the shipping port. But here he was, eighteen years old, and about to leave for the military. And he still didn't know _why_.

The memory of how it all began was so clear in his mind, and he lived it again as he stood in his room.

_The July sun was scorching, the white paved streets reflecting the heat like mirrors, but Asim didn't care. He and his friends strolled down the road feeling as free as the birds which cartwheeled through the air overhead. Their college graduation ceremony was only only three hours behind them, but already they could feel the whole wide world opening up before them._

_"I'm going to miss you all, when I go to America," Sufiya said. Her long dark blue graduation gown swamped her delicate frame, but it could do nothing to diminish her wide smile. And she had every right to be happy; she'd won herself a prestigious scholarship at MIT, and in less than three months would be off studying mechanical engineering._

_Umair let out a laugh. "I'm sure you'll forget all about us the second you walk through the front door. We know what you engineering types are like; one look at a torque-wrench or a ratchet and the rest of the world ceases to exist."_

_Sufiya's brown cheeks darkened with a blush, and she quickly linked arms with Asim to cover up her discomfort._

_"You'll come and visit me in America, won't you, Asim?" she asked._

_"Yes, of course." He replied without thinking, but inside, he felt uneasy. All of his friends knew where they were going to be three months from now. Sufiya was off to her new life in an American university; Umair was working with his father on restoring old ocean-based cruise ships, Zainab was moving to Bangladesh to go into business with her soon-to-be husband, and Hanif had secured an internship at Hahne-Kedar._

_Asim was the only one who had no idea about what to do with his life. He'd come out of college with good grades in History, Geography and Language Studies, but despite nearly a dozen or so careers advice sessions, he still didn't know what he wanted to __**be**__. If only somebody would tell him what to do, it would have been easy. But his parents were very understanding, and placed no pressure on him to follow in their footsteps; they were content to let him decide his future for himself. So far, he'd only managed to come to the conclusion that he wasn't very good at making decisions._

_"Say, why don't we go and watch a new vid at the cinema, then get something to eat?" Zainab suggested. "It's been months since we had time to visit the cinema. What better way to celebrate no more exams?"_

"_Now that sounds like a good idea," Hanif replied, with a happy grin. "I think there's a new action vid out this week. 'A Call to Arms', if I remember right. It's based on Shanxi."_

_Zainab pulled her face. She didn't care much for action flicks, preferred romantic comedies. Fortunately, she was the only one who did._

_"Aw, c'mon, Zai," Sufiya said, countering her friend's expression with a playful pout. "It'll be fun. I've been wanting to see the Shanxi film ever since they announced it two years ago. It's got actual aliens in it!"_

_"Oh, alright," Zainab relented with a sigh. "But I'm sure it'll just be an excuse for large explosions, ridiculous gunfights and military machismo."_

_The film, it turned out, wasn't as bad as Zainab had predicted. There were a couple of explosions, but the firefights weren't __**too**__ ridiculous, and the machismo was kept to a minimum. In fact, Asim even found himself enjoying it. From what he could remember of his studies of the First Contact War, the producers had got most of the details right. The names of the soldiers and the ships were all true to the books, and as he watched the human soldiers hiding out amongst the settlements of Shanxi, he surprised himself with a thought._

_I wish my life was that simple._

_Attack, defend, evade, retreat… everything the soldier did, was based on one simple premise; you follow your orders. You didn't have to think about what you had to do next, or worry that you might not be meeting your family's expectations of you. All you had to do was obey, and then come home a hero._

_Unless you were General Williams, of course. In which case you came home to disgrace. But that only happened to those who led._

_After the film, as the burning sun began to slowly sink towards the horizon, Asim and his friends left the cinema and set off to their favourite restaurant. The group's discussions were animated as they debated whether or not General Williams had done the right thing, surrendering the garrison on Shanxi. Asim only half followed the conversation. His thoughts were elsewhere. Specifically, they were back in the movie. Perhaps, he mused, he might find a way to become an actor. He didn't know if he could act, but he was willing to try. It sounded easy enough; take necessary direction and smile for the camera. How hard could it be?_

_He was about to open his mouth, to tell his friends of his potential new career, when his eyes caught sight of some advertisement flashing in a nearby window. As the ad played out over the emitter, crisp white letters announced, 'See new worlds. Protect human interests. Explore the farthest reaches of space. Join the Alliance Military today!' A scrolling footnote quickly followed. 'Now recruiting for; engineers, medics, soldiers, communications, pilots, logistics personnel, and many more! To learn about military careers, visit ea. military. org on the public extranet, or visit our information booth in the Karachi Embassy on Wednesday 26th July!'_

He opened his eyes to his half-packed bag. That day had changed his life. He'd gone down to the Embassy and been given _the talk_ by the very official looking man from the military, and decided to enlist immediately. That way, his mother couldn't try to talk him out of it by crying and predicting his early death. Not that it hadn't stopped her from trying. But his signature on that dotted line had been the point of no return. He was now committed to two years of military service whether his mother liked it or not.

Glancing at the clock on his chest of drawers, he realised the bullet-train for the airport would be leaving Karachi's station in less than an hour. He decided against taking his hand-written Quran to the cadet training facility. The risk of it being damaged in transit was too great, and the book too precious to him. Besides, he had an e-copy on an OSD that he could read on his omni-tool. Instead, he packed his bag with the family album and the figurine his sister had made for him, nestling both beside his sajjada prayer mat.

He hoisted the small carry-all onto his shoulder and made his way out of his bedroom, conscientiously closing the door behind him so that his mother wouldn't start weeping again if she passed his empty room.

His family were gathered for breakfast in the kitchen, but only Adnan, Asim's four year old brother, was eating. The boy's bowl of cereal was half empty, and Asim smiled when he saw a few of the grain-coloured loops spilled out on the table mat. His little sister, Khadijah, meanwhile, was half-heartedly pushing milk-soaked loops around her own bowl, a glum expression on her face. Asim knew she would miss him terribly, and he wished he could stay to help keep an eye on her. At thirteen, she was starting to attract the attention of boys, and he'd always imagined playing the part of protective older brother at this stage in her life.

His mother was by the toaster, waiting for the bread to cook, and judging by how puffed-up her eyes were, she'd been crying all night. The headscarf which covered her long dark hair was the same dark blue and black one she'd worn to her father's burial. But then, nobody had ever accused Taahira Shepard of being subtle.

Asim's father was sitting beside the younger children, reading the latest news on his portable extranet projector. His blue eyes, slightly enlarged by the old-fashioned glasses he insisted on wearing because he didn't trust the doctors with their lasers, glanced up briefly as Asim entered the room. It was from Daniel Shepard that Asim had inherited his blue eyes. He'd been told more than once that they were his best feature, striking in his tanned brown face. Neither Adnan nor Khadijah had inherited those eyes; they both had the same dark brown eyes as their mother.

"Morning, son," his father said.

"Good morning," he replied.

Khadijah glared at the bag over his shoulder as if it had personally offended her. "I can't believe you're really going," she complained. Asim smiled. Up until now, she'd been convinced that he would change his mind. She didn't understand that once you're signed the dotted line, you couldn't back out. She didn't understand her mother's tears.

"Where are you going, Asim?" Adnan asked. He'd stopped spooning the cereal loops into his mouth, apparently picking up on the mood of his elders.

Asim took the seat beside his little brother. "Remember what I told you the other day? That I'm going to go and learn how to be a soldier?"

"Fighting and killing," his mother said, with a sad sigh. "It isn't right."

"Leave him be, Taahira," father said. "He's made up his mind. It's down to us to support Asim, even if we don't agree with his choice."

"I probably won't have to do any fighting," Asim spoke up quickly. "The recruiter said that only soldiers who're assigned to colonies in the Attican Traverse really see any combat. I'll probably just be attached to a ship or something."

"Of course they'd say that. Otherwise nobody would ever enlist, would they?" his mother countered.

"You'll be careful, won't you, Asim?" Khadijah asked. She, too, looked close to tears now.

"I promise." He unzipped his bag and showed her its contents. "See, I'm even taking along the angel you made for me. It will be like you're right there with me."

She gave him her warmest smile, and he felt his heart lurch, twisting his stomach along with it. He would miss her fourteenth birthday; it was just eight weeks away, and he wouldn't be getting leave time until twelve weeks into his training. He realised he would also miss Ramadan, and the Eid al-Fitr celebrations after the period of fasting. He would miss his little brother's first day of junior school, and his parents' twentieth wedding anniversary.

He suddenly understood how his mother felt. He wasn't just leaving for two years to undertake a potentially dangerous career, but he was going to be missing out on a large portion of his family's lives. His mother wasn't just worried that he might not come back, but that he might not _want_ to come back.

"Here," she said, interrupting his thoughts by depositing a plate of toast and a pot of jam on the table in front of him. "I made you your last breakfast at home. Eat it quick, because Munir will be here soon to take you to the train station."

Asim nodded, and gratefully reached for a butter knife. He'd asked his family not to come to the train station to see him off. Khadijah would be in school at that time anyway, and he knew his mother would only make a scene. And that would start his brother off. He'd already envisaged the whole thing; he and his father standing awkwardly on the platform whilst his mother bawled her eyes out, and Adnan crying because his mother was upset. It wasn't the parting memory of his family that he wanted. But as the family home wasn't near Karachi's train station, his mother had enlisted the help of her brother, Munir, in getting Asim to where he needed to be. And to be fair, uncle Munir's rackety old skim-car was better than the shuttle-bus, which frequently ran late.

"It says here construction is beginning on another dreadnought-class ship," father remarked as his fingers slid over the extranet projector's holographic GUI. "They're holding a contest for people to name it. Maybe I'll enter."

Taahira Shepard's incoming response was cut short by the ringing of the door bell.

"Go and let your uncle Munir in," she instead instructed Khadijah.

As his sister obeyed, Asim quickly finished his half-eaten slice of toast and washed it down with a few gulps of fresh orange juice. By the time Khadijah returned with uncle Munir in tow, he was standing ready as if expecting his uncle to inspect him like an army drill sergeant.

"All packed and ready to go?" Munir asked him, dark eyes casually taking in his nephew's appearance.

"I think so."

"Well, let's not keep destiny waiting. I'll stash your bag in the trunk of my car and wait for you there."

Asim handed his bag over, grateful that his uncle wouldn't be present for this goodbye. As soon as he'd gone from the room, Asim turned for a final look at his family. Then he chastised himself. This wasn't a final look at them. He would be back for a week of leave in three months' time. This wasn't goodbye.

"You take care of yourself, son," his father said, taking a step forward to clap him on the shoulder. "I know you'll do us all proud. And remember, we're your family; we'll love you no matter what."

"Thank you, father."

"Will you email me on the extranet?" Khadijah asked. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth; he knew she was trying to stop herself from crying.

"Every single night that I'm able to," he promised.

She flung herself forward, wrapping her arms around him, and a moment later Adnan was thrust into his arms for a chubby four-year-old's cuddle.

"Bye bye, Asim," Adnan said. "Please bring me presents."

Asim laughed, and handed his little brother over to his father, before prying his sister from him. He noticed a damp patch on his shirt, where her tears had clung to the material, but she quickly turned to hug her father instead, so as not to show him how sad she was. Which left only one more farewell.

"I can't say that I approve of your choice," his mother said, her face looking pale and washed-out. Perhaps she'd finally run out of tears, "but if you're going to do something, then you do it right. I want you to put as much effort into this as you have done into your school work. And if, after your two-year service period, you want to come home, we will welcome you with open arms and glad hearts. But if you decide instead to stay on with the military… well, I will still be proud to welcome you home for your holidays."

"Thank you, mother," he said, and stepped forward to embrace her. Again, he felt the familiar knots in his stomach. He'd never been without his family before, other than the times he'd gone on school trips to different countries a couple of times, or gone on holiday with one of his friends and their families. But that wasn't the same.

Never before had he felt so alone. He was leaving not only his family, but his friends, and the house he had grown up in. His town, his city, his entire life… all of it was being kept here, as if he was leaving the old Asim Shepard behind, and going to find a new one. A new Asim Shepard who didn't know anything about guns or ships or fighting. The thought was enough to make him feel sick, but he was committed. And he would manage to muddle through. After all, he would have people to give him orders, and make the complicated decisions for him. He couldn't go too wrong, as long as he followed his orders.

He released his mother, noted yet another patch of damp on his shirt, and stepped back. It was a photo-moment, his whole family standing there, united in their sadness, trying to be strong for him. As best he could, he burned that image into his mind, into the very lenses of his eyes, so that he could recall it again whenever he felt lonely. Then he turned and walked out the front door, finally ready to start his new life.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thanks for checking this story out. My established readers will probably know by now that I update my fics to a strict schedule. I must say, however, that this is the one and only story I will not be updating on a regularly scheduled basis. It is my pet project, my story of experimentation, uncertainty and self-discovery. I will write for it, and publish my chapters, as and when the mood strikes me. This means I could update it for months, or go silent for months. But I won't abandon it until it's complete. Review if you please. If you have questions or concerns, please hit the PM button. This fic is definitely __**not**__ being used as a platform to preach. Other religious characters are going to be introduced over time, and plenty of familiar faces. I hope that some of the twists will be surprising. We'll see._


	2. A memory of Zak

Asim

_2. A memory of Zak_

The air of central Karachi was thick with skimmers, cabs and shuttle-buses. Three lanes deep in each direction, they wound their way around buildings, choking the sky-scrapers, a noose around the city's neck. As he watched the endless throng of traffic from the passenger seat of his uncle's old skimmer, Asim surreptitiously loosened the collar of his shirt with one finger.

"Having second thoughts?" Munir asked him.

"Ever since I signed my name on that military document," Asim confessed. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. "But I know what I signed up for, and I'm committed to seeing this through."

Munir gave a noncommittal grunt. "Good. When a man puts his mind to something, he should not allow doubts to creep in. Hey, watch it, idiot!"

The shining red skimmer that had just zipped past Munir on the inside lane disappeared out of sight, oblivious to the man's angry shout.

"Have they told you where you'll be doing your basic training?" Munir asked.

"Some place in Brazil. It's not really all that far away. And I'll have some leave time after twelve weeks, so it's not as if I'll even have chance to get homesick."

"Heh, right. Who are you trying to convince; me, or yourself?"

An image of his mother ghosted into view, as if reflected in the glass of the skimmer's window. Her eyes were red and watery, her mourning headscarf pulled tight beneath her chin as her fingers grasped a handkerchief so hard that her knuckles turned white. Asim turned away, haunted by the memory of his mother weeping.

"You're quiet," Munir observed, though he kept his eyes mostly on the traffic around him. "Something wrong?"

"I just… I wish I knew why my mother is so upset about me leaving," he sighed. He glanced to his uncle, saw Munir's lips thin and tight beneath his dark bushy moustache, and his black eyebrows angled into a frown. "Do you know something I don't?"

"Did your mother ever tell you about Zakeer?" Munir said quietly, as if he feared to be overheard by his sister even though he was miles away from her house.

"No, why? Who is he?"

"It was before she fell in love with your father. Zakeer—everyone called him Zak—was the love of her life. They'd been courting for over a year, and had planned to get married. But before he settled down, Zak wanted to do his time in the army, as his father had before him, and his grandfather before him. He was nineteen when he left for his basic training, just a year older than you. He was such a happy, friendly young man. So full of life."

"Why do you speak of him in the past tense?"

A fleeting shadow of sadness passed across Munir's brown eyes. "He never came home."

"What happened?"

"A training accident. After basic, he went for his Zero-G training up on one of the decommissioned space stations. The old NAAN Station, if I remember right. Halfway through the training exercise, there was a rupture in one of the station's bulkheads. Three people weren't able to get their oxygen masks on in time. Zak was one of them. It broke your mother's heart. She was only seventeen at the time, and she'd been looking forward to spending the rest of her life with the man she loved. Instead, she had to bury him in the ground."

His mother's concerns finally made sense. But that sort of accident couldn't possibly happen in this day and age. Could it? Surely there were better safety protocols. Lessons had to have been learnt following those deaths. Those men and women who'd been killed… their deaths had to count for _something_, didn't they?

"I wonder why she never told me this story," he mused quietly. He'd intended the comment for himself, but Munir heard him.

"It's always been difficult for Taahira to speak of Zakeer. It hurts her too much, I think. She couldn't even bear to see pictures of him, so she gave me all of the pictures they'd taken together for safe-keeping, until a time when she could look at them without crying."

"Does my father know any of this?"

Munir smiled. "I should hope so. He was at Zak's funeral."

"They were friends?"

"Best friends. Daniel had moved here from England a few years earlier with his family, and Zak was assigned as his 'buddy' in high school. He went out of his way to show your father around, took him home to meet his family, introduced him to many others at the school. They quickly became inseparable. They were so alike in many ways. And when Daniel went to work at the desalination plant as an engineer, Zak went too. They were assigned to the same team. He, like your mother, was devastated by Zak's death. I think it is what brought them together. Misery loves company, after all."

Asim asked no further questions as Munir took the turn-off to the train station and hunted for a place to park his skimmer. The indoor multi-storey parking lot was almost completely full, and they ended up squeezing into a space on the roof of the building, looking out over the whole of down-town Karachi. It was a beautiful vista; tall silver sky-scrapers were spaced out amongst older sprawling white buildings, the clean stone reflecting the sunlight.

This was one of the most beautiful cities in the world. These days, most capital and major cities had become massive conurbations, multi-level metropolises in which the wealthy lived high and the poor were at ground level, wallowing in the filth of their 'betters' above. Karachi had been spared that fate. Yes, there were sky-scrapers, but as the population had increased, the city boundaries had expanded outward, instead of upwards. Karachi's architects had been adamant about preserving the unique style of the city.

"Come on," Munir said, bringing Asim's wandering mind back to reality. "Your train won't wait for you."

Asim grabbed his carryall from the trunk of his uncle's skimmer, and they set off for the stairs towards the platform. As he walked, he cast his mind back to the last time he'd been on a train. He'd been visiting his grandparents in London and had caught the Maglev Tube from Heathrow Air and Space Port to his grandparents' home town of Uxbridge. The tube station in London was nothing like the train station in Karachi. It was smaller, more cramped, and over the past couple of centuries graffiti artists had painted the whole thing in bright colours, newer scenes of space exploration and technological advancement replacing older images of poverty and racial discrimination. The images were works of art, but they'd made Asim feel uncomfortable. Karachi's art scene was less garish and in-your-face. Nobody here would even _think_ of turning the walls of a station into a life-sized canvas, much less turning a whole _network_ of stations into a piece of politically-charged art.

The platform was a writhing mass of people waiting for their trains to arrive, and even amongst the mostly-brown faces, there was diversity. Commuters came in all forms, from the jumpsuit-wearing maintenance technicians and engineers, to the well-tailored suit-wearing politicians and business executives. Groups of children flocked together here and there, the school pupils clad in uniforms belonging to their respective schools, and the university students dressed more casually. Seeing them brought a familiar nostalgic twist to Asim's stomach. Where were his friends now? Were they even thinking of him? Or were they too busy with their new lives to think of their old friend?

Platform 12, where people waited to catch the train to the airport, was quieter than some of the others. A tannoy voice announced that the train for the airport would be pulling into the platform in a couple of minutes. Asim's stomach started fluttering as the tannoy ended. This was it. In just a few moments he'd be leaving Karachi, his home, his entire life, and he wouldn't be coming back for three months.

"Looks like we just made it," Munir said, turning to face his nephew. "I won't embarrass you with a long, emotional goodbye."

He held out his right hand, and Asim shook it, one man to another.

"If you can think of anything else you need, just send me a mail on the extranet and I'll get it to you."

"I will. Thank you, uncle."

Munir smiled, a gesture that filled his brown eyes with an uncommon warmth. "I never thought I'd see the day when my sister's son would leave home to find his own way in the world. And now that you're leaving, I just want you to know that you have become a man we can all be proud of. If only the whole world was filled with men such as you."

Asim ran a hand through his hair, unsure of what to think of his uncle's display of affection. It was true, the pair were close. Munir was like a second father to Asim; taking him to mosque when he was a young boy because Daniel Shepard was not a believer and did not know how to pray to God; helping him learn to read Arabic, so that he could study the Quran in its original language; answering all the questions that a young man felt he could not ask his father. But Munir's words were like a dousing of sudden, freezing water, and it hit Asim like the train pulling into the station; everything was going to change. Not just how he saw the world, but how other people saw him too.

"Please take care of my family whilst I'm gone," he said to his uncle.

"Of course. And you take care of yourself, Asim." Munir's face became a little more sober. A little more… concerning. "War changes a man. Violence changes a man. And not always for the better. Pray to God to protect your soul from the ill-effects of learning how to cause harm, and be vigilant in your dealings with others."

"I promise I'll be careful, uncle." Just what did Munir mean? His word were dark and cryptic, and made Asim want to shiver despite the warmth of the air.

"Just think!" Munir said, clapping him on the shoulder. "The next time I see you, you'll be a big, fit, strapping lad! Ha, you'll be stronger than me, I bet!"

Asim grinned, and the desire to shiver passed. Picking up his bag, he glanced for the nearest door to the train and turned back to briefly wave at his uncle. Munir returned the gesture.

Deep breath. Feet moving one in front of the other. Stepping up from the platform, onto the lip of the carriage. That small act of finality over, Asim looked around for a spare seat. There was one to the rear of the coach, so he stowed his bag above it and folded his tall, lanky frame into the window-seat. He looked out, expecting to see Munir heading back to the parking lot, but instead found his uncle watching the departing train with an expression of sadness on his face. It made Asim's stomach turn again.

Why did everybody see this as a bad thing? Why were they all so afraid that the military would change him, or that he would come home less than he was when he left? He wished he had answers, but it was too late now for wishes. The station disappeared from view as the train sped forward on its monorail track into the bustling heart of Karachi.

* * *

_Author's Note: Poor Zakeer. But I wouldn't foreshadow this early in the story… would I?_

_FYI, NAAN = North American Allied Nations. Also, a delicious type of bread._

_Oh, and don't worry, this isn't going to be one of those Robert Jordan type journeys where it takes people __**forever**__ to travel anywhere. Next chapter we're going to be quickly into basic training… and you'll see some familiar faces. ;)_


	3. Birds of a Feather

Asim

_3. Birds of a Feather_

Never before had Asim seen so much green, not even in England. As the shuttle-bus choked its way up the steep hill, he was given an unparallelled view from his window seat. The state of Amapá sprawled out before him, a verdant canopy of treetops and open fields bisected by sinuous blue rivers, azure snakes which wound their way through the blanket of emerald green. On the horizon, a ribbon of grey-blue could be seen, glittering where it reflected the sunlight, but the sea was too far for him to smell any salt in the air. Not that there was much air to begin with.

Once more he wiped his already damp sleeve across his forehead. He was fighting a losing battle; it took only a few seconds for the beads of perspiration to reappear again. Heat was something he was used to, but the oppressive humidity was something new, and not at all welcome.

The bus turned another corner, and a city came into view far below. This, he assumed, was Macapá. It was neither as massive as London nor as pretty as Karachi, but from what he could see, it looked a nice enough place. Perhaps he'd have chance to visit it at some point, to find gifts for his family. Khadijah would like that.

A cough from further back in the bus brought his attention around to the present. He wasn't the only new recruit to have climbed aboard the bus at São Paulo Air and Space Port; seven other young men and one woman had taken their seats on the vehicle. Asim saw on their faces the same uncertainty and dread that he was feeling in the pit of his stomach. Once or twice on the journey he'd considered striking up a conversation, but he suspected that they, like he, wanted to use these last moments of quietness to think of all they had left behind and prepare themselves for what was to come next, and he was loathe to intrude uninvited on the introspection of others.

A few minutes later, the bus reached its destination. An automatic energy fence switched off as the military vehicle approached, and when Asim looked out of the front window, he was met by the sight of sprawling concrete bunkers in an area cleared of trees. He felt the air in the bus change as the other recruits became aware of the buildings too, and the uncomfortable silence was broken by the feeling of nervous excitement, as if an electrical current was passing from man to man. Or man to woman.

There was a figure waiting outside one of the bunkers—a vehicle pool, Asim realised, when he spotted more buses and a few off-road vehicles parked within—and as the shuttle-bus came to a dead halt, the figure stepped forward. It was a man, broad-shouldered, a few flecks of grey in his neatly trimmed brown beard, and he wore green fatigues and _very_ shiny boots.

"Word of advice," the driver said, turning in his seat to address the recruits, "don't piss off Banks."

Before Asim had time to ponder the meaning of the cryptic advice, the bus door was opened. Grabbing his bag from the seat beside him, he followed three of the other recruits off the bus, and stepped out into the relatively fresh air. With no idea what was expected of him, he lined up beside the other equally inexperienced young people, taking his cues from the only experience he had of the military; the film he'd watched with his friends.

When the bus engine roared to life, and the vehicle departed towards the pool, Asim became acutely aware of how exposed he was. He was the tallest of the new recruits, easily a couple of inches taller than the others. Was he imagining it, or did the eyes of the uniformed man linger on him a fraction of a second longer?

"Recruits!" the man barked without warning. Two of them jumped, but Asim managed to catch himself in time. "Welcome to the Macapá Recruit Training Depot. I am Lieutenant Commander Banks, your commanding officer during your initial training period." Bank began to walk up the line, looking over each recruit, weighing them up with his eyes. "My job here is to turn you into effective and obedient soldiers who can safely be let loose on the galaxy with little fear of shooting yourselves, or others, by accident. Perform well, and you may be awarded the title of Squad Leader. Perform exceptionally, and you may rise to the rank of Platoon Leader. Questions?"

Asim had plenty of questions, ranging in importance from 'where's the nearest bathroom?' to 'what the hell am I doing here?' but he got the impression this wasn't the appropriate time to ask. Apparently, the other recruits felt the same; they remained standing as stiffly and awkwardly as Asim, clearly hesitant to draw Banks' attention.

"Good!" the commander barked again. "Now, I will take you to the dorms where you will be assigned to your rooms. Inside, you will find off-duty uniforms, which you will change into, and once you are properly dressed you will head down to the mess hall. Dinner is served between eighteen-hundred and nineteen-hundred, and anybody who doesn't make it on time will go hungry until tomorrow. Now, follow me."

Asim heard the unspoken orders in the last command. The 'stick together' and 'don't get lost and make me come looking for you' were strongly implied, and Asim quickly joined the cluster of recruits in following Banks to a nearby bunker. A sign outside proclaimed it _Bunker One – Quarters and Mess_.

The air inside the bunker was wonderfully cool, and Asim felt small eddies dance over his damp skin. Somewhere above, he heard the tell-tale hum of an air conditioning system on high output. The recruits were given no chance to enjoy their reprieve from the heat, however. Banks marched them on, deeper into the bowels of the building. The corridor terminated at a T-Junction, and from the left hand corridor Asim thought he heard laughter, and the clinking of dishes, but a double-swinging door barred the way. Banks turned down to the right and Asim followed, letting his eyes quickly rove over the numbered doors which lined both sides of the corridor.

"Bowers!" Banks barked, and the brown-haired woman quickly stepped forwards. "2C," said Banks, gesturing to the door with his thumb. The woman opened it and slipped inside, an expression of what looked like gratitude on her face. Probably gratitude that she didn't have to spend another moment being snapped at by Banks, Asim thought.

With the woman now gone, Banks led the rest of the group onwards, to a place where several corridors crossed each other at intervals. The Commander stopped outside a door that had the designation '4E' painted on it. "Maypeace, 4E," he said, and another of the recruits claimed his room.

And so it continued. Wilhelm got 5A, Piers was 5F, and Hoghton and Carr ended up together in 6C. Then, Banks halted beside door 7B. "Shepard!" he said, making Asim's name sound more like a command. "7B."

Grateful that he would not be the one to be left alone with the surly officer, Asim hastened to the door and entered 7B without a backwards glance. What he found inside was two pairs of bunkbeds and one wardrobe set into the wall. There were four chests of drawers, and all but one of the beds looked used.

When he noticed a pile of neatly-folded clothes on the bottom left bunk, he checked them over and found 'A. Shepard' sewn into the front of the dark blue jacket. Beneath it was a pair of navy-blue trousers, several black shirts and a pair of clean polished black boots. This, Asim decided, was his off-duty uniform, and he changed into it quickly, whilst he had the benefit of privacy. Then, from his bag, he took out the angel figurine his sister had made for him, along with the photograph of his family, and placed them in the shelf-like alcove set into the wall at the head of his bed.

"Well," he said to the inanimate image of his family, "here I am."

The only reply he received was silence. For the first time in his life, he felt small, cut off from everything and everyone, even God. There were probably hundreds of other recruits in the camp by now, but all Asim could hear was the pervasive hum of the ACU as it kept the bunker at a pleasant nineteen degrees.

A quiet beep broke the silence. Asim looked for the source, and found it in the form of an alarm clock inside one of the other alcoves. A holo-emitter displayed 18:30 in a dim light against the wall, and Asim heard Banks' voice as if the man was standing right next to him.

"_Dinner is served between eighteen-hundred and nineteen-hundred, and anybody who doesn't make it on time will go hungry until tomorrow."_

Going hungry was not an option. Already, Asim could feel his stomach complaining that it hadn't been fed in seven hours. So, conscious that he still needed to find his way to the mess hall, he quickly stashed his prayer mat at his empty bag beneath his bunk, then left the room.

His first thought was that he would come across one of the other new recruits, and have somebody to help him find the mess—and walk into it with. But the corridors were just as silent as his quarters, and the only company he found were his own footsteps which reverberated around him, sometimes running ahead of him, and sometimes chasing him.

Through sheer luck he managed to find his way back to the first junction, where he had seen the double-doors. Once more he heard voices from within, and when he glanced over the door he found the words _Mess Hall_ in faded paint. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and stepped forward, the doors swinging open as he pushed against them.

The mess hall was large, with dozens of tables and hundreds of chairs. Most of them were occupied by men and women who wore uniforms identical to Asim's. A few people looked up as he entered, but they quickly returned their attention to their food, or their companions.

As the constant stream of chatter assaulted Asim's ears, he felt himself relax. He hadn't really known what to expect from the mess hall—perhaps a highly regimented and silent room overseen by a dozen men like Banks—but now he was reminded very much of the college refectory, where he'd met up with his friends every day between classes. It was a tiny slice of the familiar in a very strange and alien place, and the pangs of homesickness which warred with the pangs of hunger in his stomach abated a little.

There was a serving counter along one side of the room, behind which a group of blue-clad men wearing hygienic kitchen hats were hauling around empty food containers and trays of dirty dishes and cutlery. Asim made his way over, peering over the top of the counter into large metallic food holders. There were only three or four choices left, and most of them looked gloopy.

"Special today is beef wellington," said one of the cooks.

"Is it halal?" Asim asked him.

The man gave him a blank look, then said, "We got chicken burgers too."

"And is _that_ halal?"

The blank look returned. And just as Asim feared he was going to have to go hungry, a chirpy, feminine voice spoke up behind him.

"You have to ask for the vegetarian option."

Asim turned, and found himself looking into a pair of beautiful brown eyes set into a dark tanned face. The women was a good foot or so shorter than him, and her black hair had been pulled back into a bun. Even under the bulky jacket she wore, he could tell she had a slender frame. When she smiled, her teeth shone pearly white.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, but you looked a little lost. If you don't eat meat, your only option is the vegetarian choice. It's bean burgers today."

"I'll have that," Asim said, half-turning back to the cook. The man shook his head briefly, but it didn't take him long to slap a bean burger onto a bun and shovel a mound of fries onto the side of the plate.

"Sauces are on the end of the counter," the cook said, handing the plate over.

"Thank you."

With nobody else to serve, the cook disappeared, and Asim turned back to his culinary saviour.

"Thanks for that," he said. "I get the feeling I would have been standing here all night if you hadn't come along."

She smiled again, a gesture which lit up her eyes. "Don't worry about it. I had a similar problem when I arrived yesterday. My name's Nirali, by the way. Nirali Bhatia."

"Asim Shepard," he replied, taking his plate in one hand so he could shake the hand she offered him. "Are you Muslim too, Nirali?"

The woman shook her head. "Hindu. Not that I'm very devout or anything," she amended quickly, with a glance around at the recruits eating nearby. "But it's how I was raised. How about you? Are all your family religious?"

"Yes. Well, except my father," he replied. "But he's accepting of our beliefs. He even came to mosque, once, with me and my uncle. It was… an experience. For all of us."

Nirali nodded, then gestured to Asim's burger. "Do you already have plans to sit with someone? If not, you're welcome to join us."

"Us?"

"Yes. There's somebody I'd like to introduce you to."

"I'd like that," he said, returning her smile. "To be honest, I was a little worried on the trip here about whether I'd make any friends."

"Have you met your roommates yet?" she asked, as she led him on a winding path through the tables.

"No, not yet."

"What room are you in?"

"7B," he recalled.

"Hmm. I don't think I've met anyone from 7B yet. But I'm sure Forrest will know someone."

"Who?"

"Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. Over here."

He followed her to a table in the corner of the room where another man was already sitting. He was wearing the same uniform as everyone else, and disinterestedly pushing fries around his plate. He glanced up when the pair approached, his dark brown slanted eyes and olive-coloured skin marking his far-eastern heritage.

"Forrest," Nirali said, "this is—"

"Shepard," the man finished for her.

Asim felt his eyebrows creep up. "How did you know?"

"It says so on your uniform."

"Ah, right," he replied, feeling a little foolish for forgetting that fact.

"Forrest Li," the man said, offering his hand.

"Asim Shepard," he returned, shaking the man's hand as he took the seat opposite. "Did you arrive yesterday with Nirali?"

"No, this is my third day here. I arrived on one of the first shuttles." Forrest grinned. "Banks gave you the grand tour?"

"If by 'grand tour' you mean 'shouted at us and marches us through the bunker' then yes. Is he always so personable?"

"As far as I can tell," Nirali said, as Asim made a start on his burger. It didn't taste as bad as it looked.

"It's not his fault," Forrest said. "Ten percent of recruits don't make it through basic, either because they can't hack it and drop out, or they're deemed not suitable to progress. It's Banks' job to separate the wheat from the chaff by making us as miserable as possible so that anybody who isn't suited to military life gives up early. Better we find out now what we're made of, than on the battlefield."

Asim tried to swallow and talk at the same time, and almost choked on his burger in the process.

"Ten percent?" he gasped, as Nirali handed him a glass of water with a sympathetic smile. The recruiters in Karachi had mentioned nothing about such a high drop-out rate. What if he couldn't handle the twelve weeks of basic? Or worse, what if he was sent home? How could he ever live with such shame?

"Don't worry," Forrest said, apparently picking up on some of Asim's feelings. "We won't let Banks drive you out. Will we, Nirali?" The woman shook her head. "Y'see, that's the other thing basic training is good for. It teaches teamwork and co-operation. From now on it's us against the man. We've gotta have each others' backs. You watch out for us, and we watch out for you."

"Speaking of teamwork, Asim hasn't met his bunkmates yet. Do you know anyone from 7B?" Nirali asked.

Forrest nodded. "Danny arrived on the same bus as me. Truss and Torres got in yesterday morning. They seem like decent guys." He glanced around the room. "I don't see them here, so maybe they're in the gym. I'll show you were that is tomorrow, if you like."

"Alright," Asim agreed. He'd never been inside a gym in his whole life, but it couldn't hurt to try working out. "Is there anywhere I can go to pray after dinner?"

"There's a private room that recruits can use for quiet time, but it doesn't see much use. At least, I've never seen anybody inside it whilst I've been in there."

"Oh? You pray too?"

Forrest gave a quick shake of his head. "Meditate. Can't really do it on my bunk… too springy."

"You're a Buddhist?" Asim guessed.

"No, Taoist."

"I've never heard of that before," he admitted. In fact, he realised, he had very little experience or knowledge of customs and life outside of Pakistan and England.

"It's a little like Buddhism," Forrest said, "and yet at the same time, very different. It was big in China, last century, and still is in some places."

"Is that where you grew up?"

"Yes and no. My mother's Chinese, and my father's Japanese–American. We lived in Massachusetts until I was ten. When my parents split up, my mother went back to China and took me with her. Neither of them is religious, but when my mother moved me to China, I met my great-grandfather for the first time, and he's the one who put me on my path."

"What about you, Nirali?" Asim asked his first new friend. "Where did you grow up?"

"New Delhi, mostly," she said. "My father is Alliance Military, so we'd move around whenever he was posted somewhere new, but we always went back to India."

Asim closed his eyes as he covered up a yawn, then realised what he'd just done. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to imply you're boring. I have no idea where that came from."

"You just travelled half-way across the world," Forrest pointed out. "Welcome to Jet Lag City. You might wanna get an early night's sleep, because we're up at 5am tomorrow for our first day of training."

"Ugh, five o'clock?" Asim groaned.

"Yes, we've been waiting for the last shuttles of recruits to arrive today," Nirali said. "Personally, I can't wait to get started."

"You might feel differently once you're cold, hungry, tired and covered in mud," Forrest pointed out.

"Ha! Unlikely."

Asim looked down at his plate. His burger and fries were only half eaten, but his eyelids felt as if they had lead weights attached to them. Nerves had kept him from getting much sleep the night before, and hours worth of travel had contributed to his newfound exhaustion. He was struck by the overwhelming desire to crawl into bed and sleep for a whole day.

"Thank you both for being such good company, and helping me with my food issues," he said, "but I don't think I can stay awake for another minute. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to head back to my room."

"Of course," Nirali said immediately. "Pleasant dreams, Asim. We'll see you tomorrow morning. First thing," she grinned.

"Set an alarm, if you have one," Forrest advised. "Banks will chew you out if you're late for the first day of training."

Asim gave him a nod of thanks, and made his way through the maze of tables and out into the main corridor. He couldn't remember his way back to his room, so he merely wandered until he found it. Inside, it was still empty and dark, with no sign of his bunkmates, but for once, he was glad for the silence. He didn't think he could handle meeting more new people and trying to be social whilst his brain told him to be unconscious.

Too tired to fully undress, he merely kicked off his boots and crawled under the blanket on his bed. The mattress was lumpy, but he was past the point of caring. And it was only after sleep had fixed its claws into his mind that he realised he hadn't prayed properly today. His final thought before his dreams claimed him was that he would simply have to make up for it tomorrow.


End file.
